


Three Stories

by edna_blackadder



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Down the Chimney Affair 2009, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-16
Updated: 2009-12-16
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edna_blackadder/pseuds/edna_blackadder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three events, intertwined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Stories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elijahwildchild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elijahwildchild/gifts).



> This was originally written for elijahwildchild for the Down the Chimney Affair fic exchange on muncle, back in 2009. Thanks to sarcasticsra for the beta.

_Ryfylke, 1968_

The small, quiet inn was surprisingly comfortable and well-heated. With Illya on crutches, the stairs had been a challenge, but Napoleon thought that the view of the Lysefjord took a step toward making up for that. It was indeed beautiful, just as the very grateful Nobel Committee Chairman had said. Illya, who had buried his nose in a scientific journal as soon as he’d made it to the bed, did not appear to have noticed.

Napoleon nudged him gently, and Illya looked up at him with an expression at once cautious and vaguely threatening. “Yes?”

Napoleon gestured out the window. “Have you even looked? It’s quite something.”

Illya condescended to spare the fjord a cursory glance. “Award-winning,” he muttered, before returning to his journal.

For a moment, Napoleon considered bringing out his own reading material. His eyes landed on Illya’s cast, elevated by two large pillows, and he shook his head firmly. For good and ill, the time was as right as it was ever going to be.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined it. In truth, he had never managed to coherently imagine anything, but if he’d had to guess, he would have been wrong.

_Rome, 1964_

After a full, rich day at one of the Capitoline Museums, Illya was unsure whether he ought to be perplexed or amused. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed himself—it was Napoleon’s behavior that perplexed him. He hadn’t expected patience, and he certainly hadn’t expected anything resembling courtship.

Yet now they were enjoying an excellent dinner at what Napoleon claimed was one of the city’s best pizzerias. It was definitely one of the most expensive, a fact Illya had not hesitated to point out. Napoleon had simply smiled and forked over the cash as if he had mountains of it.

He didn’t. Illya had seen his apartment. Napoleon lived well enough, but he wasn’t as well-to-do as he liked to pretend. His disposable income chiefly went toward making himself appear better off than he was, usually in pursuit of sex. In light of that, Illya leaned towards amusement. It was all very flattering, but not remotely necessary.

Napoleon knew him already. As far as Illya was concerned, acting on a mutual attraction was not an occasion that required fanfare. Not that he would have tolerated being treated like a sack of potatoes, but he didn’t need to be won over.

He had been attracted to Napoleon from the first, and for the most part, completely untroubled by it. Attraction was just that, easy enough to ignore. A few times he wondered if it might be returned, and now that he knew it was, he found himself getting slightly frustrated. It had been longer than he liked to admit.

_New York, 1966_

It was the longest pause Napoleon had ever lived through. Somehow, he had collected himself, made some remark about coffee and turned around, feeling as though he had been punched in the gut, his mind in a thousand places at once, his cool façade completely shattered. It was as though someone had pressed a panic button in the back of his head, and he could not focus over the roar of disordered thoughts, irrational impulses and blinding fear.

Then Mr. Waverly had changed his mind, and Napoleon had been able to turn back, enormously relieved, and order someone to arrange a flight out to the island, so that he could either rescue Illya and Pia or die along with them. But although he had regained the ability to think, he could not relax.

Soon he was seated alone on a plane, waiting impatiently for the pilot to take off, too wound up to fly himself, though he wasn’t about to admit that. Try as he might, he could not stop wondering where they were and what was happening, if they were still alive or not. He was no stranger to controlled panic, but now his control was stretched almost impossibly thin, ready to snap apart at any moment. 

_Ryfylke, 1968_

Illya was reading the same sentence for the third time, increasingly annoyed with Napoleon and doubly annoyed with himself. He wasn’t exactly making it easy, not protesting the lack of a second bed, interrupting Illya’s reading to point out admittedly breathtaking scenery and now seemingly content to just sit there, agonizingly close, watching him.

Illya wasn’t sure why Napoleon had suggested a holiday, or how he had gotten Mr. Waverly’s permission, or why he himself had gone along with it. He should have used his injury as an excuse, should have claimed that he only wanted to take some pain medication and go to sleep. But he had agreed, naturally, as he always did.

“Are you hungry?” Napoleon asked, startling him out of his reverie.

Illya hadn’t been, consciously, but now that he thought about it, he realized that he was. They hadn’t eaten since leaving Oslo. “I suppose so.”

“I’ll go out and pick up something. For now, all I’ve got is this.” Illya saw that he was holding a chocolate bar, which he unwrapped and broke in half. “Here.”

Illya took the proffered chocolate, nonplussed. “Thanks.” He took a bite and started to turn away, but Napoleon stood up.

“Anything you’re particularly in the mood for?”

Illya suppressed a groan at that turn of phrase and shook his head. “Anything you see is fine.”

Napoleon nodded and left. Illya briefly gazed after him, then quickly finished his half of the chocolate bar. He tried once more to resume his reading, but his leg throbbed and his back ached. Much to his irritation he could not seem to get comfortable. He put the journal aside and rearranged the pillows behind him. It didn’t help. He tried turning sideways, his injured leg above his uninjured one. This didn’t help either.

_Rome, 1964_

When they returned to the hotel after dinner, Illya slipped into the bathroom. He shaved, brushed his teeth and combed his hair, and then he noticed the cotton robes folded with the towels. Thinking to tease Napoleon, he shed his clothes and put one on. It left little to the imagination, and he smiled as he walked back out. Napoleon lay stretched out on one of the beds, reading a novel and sipping a glass of wine as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

This was too much. “Well?” Illya asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Napoleon looked up and, seeing the robe, did a double take. He swallowed, then managed to say, “Well, what?”

“Aren’t you—” Illya started, and then stopped, suddenly realizing with horror that he’d misread the whole thing, and that he had now left himself without any plausible way of denying it. He’d be sent back to Moscow; he’d lose Napoleon’s friendship—

For a second he stood there in silence, his face burning as Napoleon’s eyes widened with comprehension, and then he started to turn around, to get out of there as fast as he could—

“Illya.” Illya froze, and Napoleon continued, “Come here, please.”

Numbly he did so, half-expecting to be punched in the face, but Napoleon merely patted the spot on the bed next to him. “Sit down.”

Illya did so, careful to strategically position his hands. Napoleon leaned forward and gently placed his hands on Illya’s shoulders. “You thought I wanted to sleep with you?” he asked, almost in wonder. Illya nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “Why? What made you think that?”

“I—well, I—” Illya swallowed hard, his heart pounding, then said, “You invited me on vacation with you. I don’t know, maybe something in the way you said it. I’m sorry, Napoleon. I shouldn’t have assumed; I—”

Napoleon cut him off. “Was it really inconceivable that I would just want to be with you?”

Illya felt his face grow even hotter. “We work together day and night. I would have thought you’d want to be with anyone but me.”

Napoleon shook his head, then said, still in that odd, marveling tone, “You haven’t had many friends, have you.” He drew his hands back, then asked, “Did you want this?”

Illya looked downwards, then admitted, “I did, yes.” Then, in an attempt to regain some of his dignity, he added, “I like you, but not that much.”

Napoleon seemed to relax. “Okay.” Then: “How long?”

“What?”

“How long have you wanted to sleep with me?”

Illya sighed. “I thought you wanted it, and the prospect was not unappealing.”

“So…not long.”

“No.”

“Well…I’m sorry I misled you. Get dressed and then get some sleep. I want to climb the Spanish Steps tomorrow.”

_Somewhere Above the Southeastern United States, 1966_

Sitting for hours on end was only serving to make Napoleon more frantic. He tried to sleep, as he had been awake for at least 18 hours, but every time he closed his eyes he was greeted by terrible images of what THRUSH might be doing to Illya and Pia, and the only other thing he could think about was what he would have done if Mr. Waverly hadn’t relented. He knew that he would have tried something, somehow, but he had no idea what. It wasn’t just that he had been ordered not to rescue them. He had been ordered to stand by while they were killed, after which he would have had to write a report classifying the successful destruction of Strago’s island as a victory for UNCLE, his partner’s death an unfortunate but necessary means to an end.

Napoleon knew that it was Pia, a victim of circumstance if ever there were one, for whom he ought to be most concerned, and he was concerned for her. Her predicament was—both of her predicaments were—entirely his fault, and he would do whatever it took to save her. He owed her that at the very least. But earlier, when his heart had fallen out of his chest, he had been thinking only of Illya. Pia’s peril had been an afterthought.

Napoleon had always known, in theory, that agents were expendable. It was true that he and Illya both knew the risks they took. Napoleon knew, in theory, that they could both have died at least a hundred times already, but they hadn’t yet, and he had no intention of allowing Illya to start now.

Suddenly, Napoleon’s mind was clear again, and he knew now why he had come unglued. If it ever came down to a choice between his job and his partner, he would choose Illya without hesitation.

_Ryfylke, 1968_

The first place Napoleon found was a deli, which he quickly decided would have to do, having forgotten just how cold Norway could get. His faintly ridiculous hat was warm enough for New York winters, but compared to Ryfylke, New York did not have winters. He stopped at a pharmacy next, then headed back to the inn.

He returned to find Illya sitting up and punching one of his pillows. His blankets were scattered, the very picture of tossing, turning frustration. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Illya muttered, not looking up.

Napoleon sat down next to him and wordlessly held out a sandwich. They ate in silence, and then Napoleon said, “I picked up a hot water bottle. Do you think it’ll help?”

Illya paused before answering, then said, almost cautiously, “I suppose it might.”

Napoleon nodded. “Lean forward. Where does it hurt most, apart from the obvious?”

Illya scoffed as he did so. “I was thrown off of a moving train, Napoleon. I’m sore everywhere.”

Napoleon sighed, then placed the hot water bottle between Illya’s shoulder blades. He laid his other hand gently at the base of his neck. Illya started, but said nothing. “Is this okay?”

“Fine,” Illya answered, but his voice sounded strangely choked.

Napoleon hesitantly slid the hot water bottle slightly downwards, and then, even more hesitantly, began to massage Illya’s neck. “And now?”

_Rome, 1964_

Twenty-four hours and one hundred thirty-eight steps later, Illya still couldn’t believe how well Napoleon had taken his confusion. The next morning it was as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and despite the multitude of panting tourists who apparently had not realized that steps were in fact stairs, the day was just as enjoyable as the last. He wasn’t about to admit it, but Napoleon’s enthusiasm was infectious. The next day they were to head to the Colosseum, and he was genuinely looking forward to it.

They spent the morning there as planned, and then Napoleon was determined to hunt for a very specific restaurant, and by then, Illya was reassured enough to mock him for it. It was all going unbelievably well—

And then she appeared, and Napoleon seemed to forget him completely. Clara Valdar, a woman Napoleon had never mentioned and yet obviously loved still, a fact she had no qualms about exploiting, and even though Illya knew that she was using them to a good end, he hated her on sight. He hated her, and he hated Napoleon’s unrelenting kindness to her, kindness she had not even begun to earn.

But most of all he hated himself, because he knew that he truly hated her because of how completely she had turned Napoleon’s head away from him. He had not even thought to introduce them, which had stung more than Illya had ever imagined it could.

Just two days earlier, Illya had flatly denied being in love with Napoleon. The realization that this might not be true hit him like a spout of ice cold water. With any luck, they would be able to extricate themselves from Terbuf. Clara would stay there with her worthless husband, and he and Napoleon would get on a plane that would take them far away from her, but their partnership would never be the same, and Napoleon would probably not even notice.

_Somewhere in the Caribbean, 1966_

Napoleon had long since acknowledged an attraction to Illya, but he had never once feared that he might be in love. Now it seemed frighteningly possible, and he wasn’t remotely ready to think about it.

His mind was racing again as he steered his boat towards the island, and two things were becoming painfully clear. The first was that if he did not reach Illya in time, his failure to consider this before, and to tell him as much, would be a regret that would haunt him for years to come. The second was that if he did manage to rescue Illya, there was absolutely no way that he would tell him anything. They would go back to HQ, celebrate a successful mission and continue to live on borrowed time. The only difference would be that now, Napoleon would know it. This feeling of barely contained terror, previously unfamiliar and frankly terrifying, would be something to which he would become accustomed, as natural as breathing, unless and until he finally screwed up the courage to act.

He wondered how Illya would react if he did. Illya had once been willing to have sex with him, but only because he had thought Napoleon wanted it. At best, Illya was attracted to him, nothing more. Illya was a good liar, but at that moment he had been vulnerable, mortified by how badly he had misread the situation. If he had been lying then, Napoleon would have known.

_Ryfylke, 1968_

“You’re trying to seduce me,” Illya murmured. At first he did not realize he had said it out loud, and when he did, time seemed to stop.

But before he could say anything else, he felt Napoleon’s breath on his cheek. “Yes.”

For a moment, Illya sat frozen in shock, his mouth hanging open. He hadn’t been serious in the least, but from the way Napoleon’s hand was trembling against the hot water bottle, his response had been deadly serious. “You really are, aren’t you.”

Napoleon nodded. “I don’t seem to be doing a very good job, though.”

Illya raised an eyebrow. “Why?” he found himself blurting out. “Why now? You realize I’m not in any shape to make it worth your while, don’t you?”

Napoleon drew back, but kept his hands in place. “Exactly,” he whispered. Then, a little louder, he added, “This isn’t supposed to happen. Something’s changed. Maybe we’re just getting older, but it’s as if the job has suddenly become a lot more dangerous than I remember. We’re both spending a lot more time in hospitals than we ever used to.” Then, more vehemently, he said, “I can’t stand it anymore. It used to be only occasional, but now it seems to happen every time.”

“I’m sorry. You have lost me.”

“It started with Strago and that island of his. Did you know that Mr. Waverly initially ordered me not to go after you?”

Illya stiffened. “You never told me that, no.”

“That was the first time. I was terrified, Illya. I don’t know how I kept it together. I’d feared for your life before, but I’d never had to choose between you and UNCLE. And I never have since, but that feeling of pure terror—” Napoleon paused briefly, then said, “It was a foreign sensation then. It’s routine now. But I still didn’t tell you, and every time I hate myself more. So…now you know.”

Illya shook his head. He didn’t know, not yet. He dared to suspect, maybe even to hope, but he was not going to make the same mistake twice. Napoleon’s proximity was intoxicating, and his hands felt wonderful, but Illya willed himself not to respond, not until he heard a clear, unambiguous statement. “Tell me what, Napoleon?”

Napoleon sighed. “I love you,” he said quietly. “I am trying to seduce you, but not in the way that you think. If you still feel as you did in Rome, say so now, and I’ll never—”

It would be several seconds before he finished that thought. Illya, having heard all he needed to hear, turned around, grabbed Napoleon and kissed him hard. Napoleon’s mouth opened automatically and Illya deepened the kiss, pouring four years’ worth of frustrated passion into it. When he finally pulled away to breathe, he was pleased to see that Napoleon looked dazed, caught completely off guard.

“—mention it again,” he said finally, unable to suppress a glowing smile.

“You idiot,” Illya whispered, reaching up to take Napoleon’s free hand in one of his own. “I regretted those words within days of saying them. If you hadn’t been so distracted by Mrs. Valdar, you would have seen it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I fully expected you to be furious with me. Instead, you continued taking me around Rome, and I was happy, Napoleon, happier than I had been in ages. And then she turned up, and you forgot me entirely.”

Napoleon dropped the hot water bottle. “Are you saying that you—”

“That I’ve been in love with you ever since? More or less, yes. It was a while before I was sure of it, but that was when I knew that what I felt for you was…much more than I thought.”

“And I never knew. I am so sorry, Illya—”

Illya kissed him again, lightly this time, but no less effectively. “Make it up to me.”


End file.
